


From Beneath The Rubble

by cullenlovesmen



Series: Bi!Cullen fics [22]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Background Sera/Lavellan, Dancing, Don’t copy to another site, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Halamshiral (Dragon Age), Happy Ending, M/M, Second Chances, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25670848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cullenlovesmen/pseuds/cullenlovesmen
Summary: The Inquisition's mission at the Winter Palace offers very little joy for Cullen. He's gathered something of a following — much to his dismay — and the Inquisitor's invitation to dance comes as a welcome escape. The evening takes an unexpected turn as Cullen sees someone from his past amidst the crowd; will he lose sight of him, or will this be the second chance Cullen never expected to get?
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Sebastian Vael
Series: Bi!Cullen fics [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1124577
Comments: 17
Kudos: 27
Collections: Rare Pairs Exchange 2020





	From Beneath The Rubble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YunaBlaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YunaBlaze/gifts).



> Do you ever want to save Cullen from those pushy admirers of his? I know I do, so here's a fix-it of sorts. Beta-read by the fantastic [RossKL](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RossKL/pseuds/RossKL) — thank you so much, dear. <3 
> 
> Written for YunaBlaze through Rare Pairs Exchange 2020. I hope you'll enjoy this!

“Are you married, Commander?”

A stunning waft of perfume follows the question; a crooked smile plays on rouged lips. The woman pushes herself into Cullen’s space, aggravating the sweat already running down his spine. 

“I am married to my work.” The words barely squeeze through his throat, and Cullen adjusts the collar of his uniform. Another body meets his back as he takes half a step away; he flinches and gives up on such attempts. Why does it have to be so void-damned hot and crowded in here? And where did he leave his drink? 

As he’s looking for his glass, a familiar figure approaches from the corner of his eye. Thank the Maker. 

Lavellan's appearance couldn't have come at a better time. The perfume level turns tolerable as the elf squeezes herself in front of Cullen through the tightly packed swarm of people; the bodies around him shift to give her space. Cullen yearns for an update on Lavellan's mission, but instead she greets everyone and proceeds to talk about the evening and its opulence — idle chatter, uncharacteristic of her — as her gaze travels between the people that have them surrounded.

Something about the situation must displease her; she frowns, the edge of her mouth pulling downward as she regards Cullen. "Fancy a dance, Commander?" 

Cullen’s stomach does a muted flip; dancing has never been his forte, and risking Sera’s wrath can’t be a good idea. But on the other hand, staying here is... less than ideal. 

“But the Commander and I were in the middle of a conversation before you arrived, Your Worship! Surely you can’t be so cruel as to whisk him away.” Red lips curl to a predatory smile and the masked noblewoman straightens her back, her impressive chest rising up high. 

Lavellan nods at the woman smoothly, gesturing at Cullen. "I do apologise, madam, but I must speak with the Commander privately. It cannot wait." 

Cullen swallows, only barely resisting the urge to wipe his forehead. “I would love a dance, Inquisitor.” 

Ignoring the choir of sighs from his unwanted companions, he offers an arm to Lavellan, who accepts it with a small curtsy. They stroll quietly towards the dance floor, walking past Sera, whose rock-hard eyes are nearly enough to change Cullen’s mind. He’ll have to figure out how to make peace with her — but later.

They come to a stop near the dancefloor, standing there as they await for the song to end. For the first time that night, Cullen takes in the grandeur of the Winter Palace: the gold-rimmed velvet curtains fall heavy by the windows, the marble floor reflects the candlelight of the massive chandeliers, the dancers sparkle in a multitude of colours, their precious jewels flashing as they move.

“Do you feel better now? You looked as though you might faint.” 

Drawing a breath, he looks down at Lavellan’s smiling face. She looks terrific in her uniform: long red hair falling down in intricate braids, golden strings woven within them, glimmering in tune with her eyes. For a fleeting moment, he envies Lavellan’s calm. It’s as though she’s born for events just like this; her composure never seems to slip. “As a matter of fact, I do. Although I fear your girlfriend might be planning my demise.” 

Lavellan’s brows shoot up and she turns to face Sera, whose eyes finally leave Cullen’s face. Something passes between them, for Sera’s posture relaxes, and an uncertain smile quirks the edge of her mouth and she nods. This dance is a kindness — one Cullen is grateful for — and that’s all it could ever be.

Cullen left his heart in Kirkwall, buried beneath the rubble. 

The last notes of the waltz fade out, the sea of people on the dancefloor coming to a halt. Some couples walk away, others remain in their places, and Cullen follows Lavellan to a spot near the edge. "I fear I'm no good at dancing." 

Lavellan grins, "Neither am I. Just try to relax." 

The waltz begins, and the two of them move to an awkward rhythm, following the flow of the others. Lavellan finally divulges what she's uncovered so far; of the whispers of servants and guests alike, of the dark underbelly of this splendid celebration. Cullen forgets his discomfort, the trapped loneliness of the evening, as he listens and tries to make sense of the hints his companion has gathered. It takes but a moment before his feet grow accustomed to the rhythm on their own.

His gaze sweeps the room as he puzzles over the gossip, pausing at nowhere in particular, but then… then he spots two figures descending the stairs to the dancefloor. The woman is a white-haired lady he’d seen chatting with Lavellan before; her graceful movements are unmistakable. But the man… he is dressed in white and gold, his face maskless and familiar. That polite smile and kind eyes; a sight Cullen never thought he’d see again.

Cullen’s feet stop working; Lavellan nearly trips as their dance grinds to a halt. She follows Cullen’s gaze, watching the odd pair merge into the swaying crowd. “Who is that man with Grand Duchess Florianne?”

Cullen flicks his gaze to meet Lavellan’s, gives her an apologetic nod, and whispers: “The Prince of Starkhaven.”

Coming back to himself, Cullen leads his companion back into the rhythm, his feet once again moving as if on their own. Lavellan doesn’t ask more questions. Their relationship never went beyond the professional; she never made an effort to become friends and Cullen wasn't good at such things. Instead, she continues speculating over who the conspirators are — but Cullen’s thoughts are elsewhere, under the rubble where he left his heart. 

The dance ends without further incident, and Lavellan walks to Sera, insisting Cullen should join the two of them instead of remaining prey to the invasive, snotty nobles that pushed themselves onto him. Relieved, Cullen nods and follows her to a shadowy corner of the ballroom, trying not to steal glances at the dancefloor. He stays silent as the women chat, lost in his thoughts, and eventually Lavellan leaves to investigate the conspiracy further. 

Sera is deep into her monologue of “piss-drinking, snot-eating nobles” when a servant approaches their table and hands Cullen a folded note. He recognises the neat, rounded letters in an instant, blood tingling on his cheeks as he reads the words.

_“Would you meet me in the guest wing once the party is over, please? Yours, S.”_

————

Is this a good idea?

He’s been asking himself the question ever since reading the note, and yet, here he is. The guest corridor is dimly lit; most candles in the chandeliers snuffed out, the remaining few flickering as they struggle for their last breaths. Lone candles have been lit to illuminate the path towards guest apartments; they burn steadily in the undisturbed air. 

There’s a common area at the end of the corridor with tables full of snacks and decanters of water and wine, massive shelves of books covering the walls. Cullen sits in one of the armchairs, fingers tapping against the soft velvet. Perhaps the note had been a prank? To his knowledge, Sebastian hadn’t even seen him. Could Lavellan have disclosed his odd behaviour to Sera? Maybe the archer was now taking her revenge; she had seemed awfully calm about the dance. Besides, why would Sebastian want to see him? They didn’t part in the best terms.

He’d missed his chance. And then he’d let Sebastian go. 

Cullen heaves out a bone-weary sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. He should go to sleep. Preferably before Sera appears and has a laugh at his expense.

Just as he’s convinced it’s one of her pranks, the candles flicker in the hallway. A tall figure approaches with measured steps. Cullen leans back in his chair, holding his breath, and watches in astonishment as Sebastian Vael, the Prince of Starkhaven, smiles and takes a seat on an empty chair next to him. “Good evening, Commander.”

His voice is just as Cullen remembers it; a melodic baritone. Accented. Soft. A shiver runs down his spine. “Good evening, Your Highness.”

Silence descends between them as they look at one another. Sebastian hasn’t changed much, aside from a few grey streaks now decorating his auburn hair and crow’s feet wrinkling the corners of his eyes as he smiles. His lips are full, with a rosy tint. Even in the candlelight, the blue of his eyes is striking; impossible to miss. The sharpness of his cheekbones casts a straight shadow onto his smooth, brown skin. 

As always, Cullen feels woefully inadequate in comparison. He’s tempted to melt into his chair as Sebastian watches him, but such foolish impulses have never served him well. “You look well, Your Highness.”

Sebastian raises a brow, his smile deepening. “You too, Commander. Though I can’t see why we should stand in ceremony for one another. You should call me Sebastian, and I’d be happy to call you Cullen — unless you object.”

Warmth spreads in Cullen’s cheeks; objecting is the last thing on his mind. “I suppose that can be done.” 

Sebastian straightens the sleeve of his uniform, a crease forming between his brows as he frowns. The white and gold of his garment bring to mind the armour set he always wore in Kirkwall, somehow always pristine and polished, despite the adventures Hawke had taken him on. More to break the silence than of any real interest in the topic, Cullen says, “Hawke has been helping us with a mission.” 

Sebastian chuckles. “So I hear. Make sure you keep him safe; he has a tendency to get in trouble.”

Nodding, Cullen gazes at his lap, where his hands are loosely clasped. The insides of his palms are sweating, and he resists the desire to wipe them on his trousers. Some things never change. 

“You must be wondering why I invited you here.” 

That gets Cullen’s attention; he swallows thickly as he meets Sebastian’s eyes, now guarded. He fights not to clear his throat, breathing out a ‘yes’ instead.

“This is going to be very forward of me, and for that, I apologise." Sebastian leans back on his chair, crossing his legs and adjusting his position, shifting his gaze away from Cullen, “I wasn’t going to attend this ball, you see. There are rifts near Starkhaven and I’ve been busy trying to come up with a plan for them. But then I heard the Inquisition would be at the ball and—” his eyes flick back to Cullen’s—”I thought you might be among them.”

Cullen’s pulse throbs high up in his throat; he plants his damp palms against his thighs, holding his breath as Sebastian continues.

A self-deprecating smile plays on the man’s lips. “And so I’m here. Hoping against hope I’m not too late; that I didn’t misread you all those years ago—”

The memory flashes in Cullen’s mind: his hands clutching Sebastian’s robes; two bodies pressing together in a dark, empty room in the Chantry. Time standing still as Cullen leaned forward, chasing the culmination of years of friendship — only to halt a hair’s breadth apart. Cowardice. And the next day the Chantry was no more. Cullen watched as Sebastian walked away from the Gallows, his shimmering armour contrasting the dust and stone strewn about. When the last glimmer of gold faded from sight, Cullen buried his aching heart underneath the rubble. 

Only, it had never died. 

“—perhaps I’m hoping there’s still a chance. I have so little to lose by trying.”

Sebastian watches him, patient, as the words hang in the air. Cullen catches them one by one, putting them back together in his head, disbelief turning to acceptance as the puzzle forms a picture. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’s always known the outcome of the two of them meeting. The bumps on the road had simply thrown the pieces apart; he hadn’t realised he still possesses them all. 

“It’s not too late,” Cullen whispers, the tone of his voice soft to his own ears, “and you didn’t misunderstand.” 

A hopeful smile grows on Sebastian’s lips; Cullen tracks the movement, reciprocating with little self-restraint. Cautiously, his hand reaches between the chairs. When Sebastian meets it with his own and links them together, a strange calm descends upon Cullen; like this isn’t the first time. As though they’ve always been this way. 

Perhaps they have, in all senses but the material.

When Cullen follows Sebastian into his suite, it’s with a certainty utterly alien to him. His heart is secured firmly in its place, its beat strong and vivacious. A vision of the future unfolds before his mind’s eye, and for the first time, it isn’t bleak and lonesome. For the first time, there’s a reason to survive beyond the Inquisition’s cause.

The door shuts behind them and he draws close to Sebastian; this time following through with no intent to stop. As hands grasp his back and pull him nearer, the thought solidifies into a fact of life. 

There’s something — someone worth living for.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments of all shapes and sizes much treasured, as are kudos! Thank you for reading. <3


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